


A-Cute Accent

by dear_monday



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Accents, Exhibitionism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Frank and Gerard adopt ridiculous fake English accents and have sex in a closet. I can offer no better summary nor explanation than that.</p><p><b>Edit!</b> Now with <a href="http://dapatty.livejournal.com/83809.html">podfic</a> by <a href="http://dapatty.%20livejournal.com">dapatty</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A-Cute Accent

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [jedusaur](http://jedusaur.livejournal.com) and [verbyna](http://verbyna.livejournal.com) for enabling, and [jedusaur](http://jedusaur.livejournal.com) for the beta/Ameri-pick ♥

Frank actually can't believe it's never occurred to him before. It makes perfect sense, he figures: too much _Monty Python_ and _This Is Spinal Tap_ in your formative years should theoretically allow you to develop a decent English accent. But he's never actually thoughtabout it as it applies to, you know, _them_.  
   
That is, not until they're on stage somewhere in some Midwestern state (Frank doesn't know which) and Gerard is so _on_ , rolling his hips and moaning and whipping the crowd into a screaming frenzy, and Frank is already struggling not to pop a boner mid-set. At least he has a guitar to hide behind.  
   
Then it happens. Gerard is chatting away to the audience while Ray changes guitars for the next song, and Frank is sort of half-listening as he adjusts one of his tuning pegs; his top E's gone slightly flat. And suddenly, Gerard's –  
   
"We would like to play you a song off of our record that's coming out in October! Would you like to hear it? Would you?"  
   
– fuck, Gerard is doing this actual fucking English accent that falls exactly midway between the stupidest thing Frank's ever seen and the most stupidly hot thing Frank's ever seen. Frank completely forgets what he was doing and just stands there and stares with his mouth open, because, well, what the actual  _fuck?_ Half of him wants to cringe and laugh and tell Gerard he's being a huge fucking dork again, but the other half is thinking, _huh_. _Well,_ that's _new._  
   
And then it's all over as quickly as it started, and then they're ripping into House of Wolves like nothing even happened.   
    
 

\+ + + 

  


  

   
Frank means to talk to Gerard about it when they next get a hotel night, he really does.   
    
Somehow, between the van breaking down and Mikey and Bob debating whether they were going to have to trade Brian for a ride to the next rest stop and Ray getting left behind (again) when they finally got the van started, Frank ends up so tired that he and Gerard spend the precious hotel night on lazy handjobs and sleep.  
     
 

\+ + + 

  
  

   
It's a week later, and they're doing a radio interview in a tiny room that smells like stale nicotine and late nights and early mornings without showers. The DJ keeps looking at his obnoxiously large watch and clearly has no idea who they are. Frank takes exception to the dude's spray tan/skin-tight white t-shirt combo and the amount of hair gel he's wearing.  
   
"So," he says. "You guys have a new record out?"  
   
This was not the right thing to say. Asking Gerard an open question like that is just... well, askingfor it, really. Gerard launches into an earnest explanation of the entire Black Parade concept, complete with expansive hand gestures – which, Frank thinks fondly, he's probably forgotten are completely superfluous to radio interviews. Gerard finally trundles to the end of his tangent about the presentation of death in their lyrics, and the poor interviewer looks slightly shell-shocked.  
   
"Well, that's really, uh, interesting," he says, and Gerard opens his mouth again, probably to explain how integral the _narrative flow_ is to the whole concept, and the DJ panics and turns the mic on Frank instead.  
   
"So," he says slightly desperately, "What's the fan reaction to the album been like so far?"  
   
Frank pauses for a moment to consider. Fuck it, he thinks. Why not? "Well," he beams, "I'd say it's been jolly good, so far. Wouldn't you, chaps?"  
   
Gerard looks like he's about to break something with the strain of not laughing and Ray, Bob and Mikey are all looking at him as if he's grown an extra head. Hardly surprising, Frank concedes, as he seems to be channeling Dick van Dyke à la _Mary Poppins_ , because that is apparently what his inner British person sounds like. But the others play along, nodding sagely and offering their own opinions. The DJ looks slightly nonplussed, but doesn't comment. While Ray is making the obligatory statement about the whole suicide cult debacle, Gerard runs a hand through his newly-bleached and shorn hair and shoots Frank a slanting, sidelong grin.  
   
When Bob starts patiently re-re-re-re-re-telling the story of how he came to be in the band, Frank digs his cell phone out of his pocket and texts Gerard: _i blame u 4 this, motherfucker._  
   
Gerard blows him a kiss.   
    
 

\+ + +

   
  

   
Things... escalate.  
   
Gerard does an entire TV interview sounding disturbingly like Michael Caine, and it takes every shred of self-control Frank possesses not to a) dissolve into hysterical laughter every time he speaks or b) stick a hand down Gerard's pants. If he ends up doing the former, then it'll be all over the internet by tomorrow morning that he's taken to doing interviews high as a kite – although, he thinks, that might actually make them more fun.  
   
(He's not remotely concerned about the latter turning up on youtube – after all, there are shitty cell phone videos of him on his knees on stage with his face in Gerard's crotch. Frank knows; he's seen them. After you've had to explain _that_ to your mom and dad, you just don't really give a shit anymore.)  
   
Still, he'd like to think he's got _some_ dignity left. It's embarrassing, really, what this whole accent thing is doing to him. Gerard sounds ridiculous; Frank _knows_ this, but his subconscious mind doesn't seem to care _._ It feels like he's spent most of the last week or so achingly hard with Gerard's crooked smile lurking at the edges of his consciousness. He's been jerking off at almost every opportunity, hearing that fucking voice pouring filth and moans and gasps into his ears. Unfortunately, as the tour definition of 'opportunity' is more often than not _"ten minutes in a public restroom with the rest of the guys waiting on the bus"_ , it's not exactly scratching the itch.  
   
"Frank?"  
   
Frank startles back to reality and blinks dazedly at the microphone under his nose. Another interviewer – this one earnest and blonde – is looking at him intently. He tries to be inconspicuous and nonchalant about crossing his legs.  
   
"Sorry," he says, with his widest, most charming smile. "Could you repeat the question?"   
    
 

\+ + + 

  
  

   
They're in Chicago this time. They haven't started their set yet, and the crowd is getting restless. Frank steps into the conspicuous space in the middle of stage and takes Gerard's mic.  
   
" _Orflly_ sorry, chaps," he says earnestly. "There's been something of a wardrobe malfunction, but we promise we'll have Gerard sewn back into his _trousers_ in no time, and then we can get started, what?"  
   
   
   
In retaliation, Gerard sneaks up behind Frank halfway through The Sharpest Lives, growls " _So why don't you blow me?_ " right into his ear and gropes his ass. Frank promptly falls over, but he thinks he at least makes it look like it was intentional and finishes the song writhing around on the stage. It's not without satisfaction that he notices that Gerard can hardly tear his eyes away.   
    
 

\+ + + 

  
  

   
"What my old chum over here is saying," says Gerard, straight-faced, "Is that we're all _dead chuffed_ to be touring again."  
   
His accent veers from plummy upper class to exaggerated cockney and Frank realizes he's _completely_ fucked.   
    
 

\+ + +

   
  

   
It's an ill-advised talk show appearance with an audience of confused, suspicious adults wondering who the basket cases in the eyeliner are and whether their wallets/cars/children are safe.  
   
Gerard watches them through the camera feed in the green room and Frank can practically hear him salivating over the potential for head-fuckery. He flaps his arms in a gesture for 'band meeting' (or possibly just 'huddle'). Frank sort of has to firmly suppress the urge to slam him against the nearest wall and kiss the hell out of him.  
   
"Guys, guys. _Prison_ ," he says. His eyes are all lit up with excitement, and there's no _way_ Frank can say no to that.  
   
"Fuck, _yes_ ," he says, at exactly the same time as Mikey smirks, lifts an eyebrow and says "Alright," Ray says, "Brian's going to murder you," and Bob just sighs deeply and cracks his knuckles.  
   
   
   
The next few minutes pass in a furiously efficient blur of finding Ray's other guitar and adjusting levels and tone and gain – all while trying to be as sneaky as possible to avoid anyone noticing what they're doing. All Frank is really aware of is the slow, hot build of anticipation his stomach, because he sees the swing in Gerard's hips and the glint of his smile and he just _knows_. Something has to give.  
   
   
   
Gerard doesn't disappoint.  
   
"Now, this song," he drawls as Ray begins the introduction, all strangely flattened vowels, smirking as he saunters over to Frank and drapes an arm around his shoulder. "Is about being very, _very_ bad..." He wags his finger sternlyat the audience before offering the mic to Frank, pressing up close. Frank's heartbeat picks up; he knows this speech and he knows the look in Gerard's eyes – it's a promise, or maybe a threat _._  
   
Gerard nudges his hip against Frank's. _Play along._  
   
Frank bites. He smiles slow and dirty, rolling his hips against his guitar and leaning into Gerard. "...And going to jail," he continues, low and throaty and as English as he can manage. He trails two fingers up Gerard's thigh and swallows a bubble of laughter. He can hear Ray on the dead mic in his ear, shrilly protesting that this is airing pre-watershed, that they _can't_ , that that they're gonna get their asses sued into the middle of next week, that more to the point Brian is actually going to kill them with, with actual fucking _knives_ –  
   
Gerard ignores him. He pauses, making sure everyone's listening, making sure every last pair of eyes in the room is on him. Even when he was eighteen and greasy and funny-smelling and living in his mom's basement, he always did have that flair for the dramatic. There's a still, suspended moment where the tension hums thick and bright in the air and it feels like every single person is holding their breath, wondering what he'll say.  
   
"...And getting fucked in the ass," Gerard finishes, dropping the words slowly and clearly, with fucking _relish_ ,and something in Frank sparks with that slick, electric thrill he always gets when they're getting a reaction out of people.  
   
Frank just can't resist; he grabs Gerard by the lapels of that ridiculous jacket and yanks him in for a deep, open-mouthed kiss. Gerard returns it enthusiastically, curling a hand possessively around the back of Frank's head, pushing his tongue past Frank's parted lips and – ever the showman – angling the mic just right to catch the sound when he moans long and low into Frank's mouth. Frank responds in kind, knowing he sounds like bad porn but several universes past the point of caring. Eventually, Gerard pushes away with a dirty grin before turning to the shadowed audience, head held high, lips curling into a sneer, bleached, tousled hair glowing under the lights. _Yeah? What are you gonna do, motherfuckers? You gonna stop me?_  
   
Frank shivers.  
   
There's a shocked, frozen moment and then a noise that starts as a low, angry hum like a swarm of bees and grows, grows, grows until Frank can see shadowy figures leaving their seats and making for the doors. _Good_ , he thinks, fierce satisfaction igniting in the pit of his stomach. The remaining audience is largely middle-aged and middle-class, too polite to howl like animals or throw bottles like a festival crowd would, but the dull, angry humming is still there and Frank knows they have secondsto turn this around, if that.  
   
Gerard knows it too. He takes center-stage, a lazy sway in his hips, one heel tapping on the floor, his head bowed. " _In the middle of a gunfight_ ," he croons, cigarette-smoky, and Frank honestly doesn't think he's ever wanted to fuck him more. " _In the center of a restaurant..._ " his voice is still soft and Frank can still hear the audience; _come on, come on, come on, Gee_ – but then he raises his head, spreading his arms wide, his voice rising to a shout as they go silent, his eyes wide, almost deranged, and his grin sharp and feral. There's a giddy flood of euphoria as Frank thinks, _he's got them, he's fucking got them._ "Come with – your – arms – raised – _high!_ "  
   
   
   
Ray is furious, of course, and it's hard to tell but it looks like Mikey's glaring (that kid's fucking poker face, _seriously_ ). Bob just looks long-suffering, and Frank can almost hear Brian doing that air-strangling thing again. It doesn't matter. It's still the fucking best they've ever sounded.  
   
Frank also doesn't miss the way Gerard's eyes darken and his breath hitches when he runs a hand through Frank's hair and Frank groans and arches into the touch. His eyes linger on the hard-on clearly visible in the front of Gerard's fucking stupid jeans, and Frank thinks – _ yeah. _  
   
   
   
Gerard gets off the stage before Frank, and Frank can see his pale hair vanishing into the dark of the hallway. He practically throws his guitar into Matt's arms and sets off after Gerard at a run. When he catches up, he snakes an arm around Gerard's waist and pulls him in close, his back pressed to Frank's chest and his ass up against Frank's crotch.  
   
"Can't fucking believe you, Jesus Christ," he mumbles into Gerard's neck, licking at the warm, slick skin and tasting sweat and triumph. Gerard laughs, but it's shaky and breathy as he leans back against Frank, still breathing hard.  
   
"It's all your fault," he says unsteadily, his voice cracking slightly. "Look so fucking good out there, I don't even know what I'm fucking doing – Jesus, _fuck_ , come on. Let's go – find..."  
   
He doesn't finish his sentence; he doesn't need to. Frank unwraps his arms and grabs him by one hot, sticky hand, pulling him down the empty corridor. At Frank's guess, they've got a minute or less before it'll be full of people.  
   
"Here – " Gerard stumbles through an unmarked door, the paint peeling and pockmarked by a thousand amp corners and guitar headstocks. It's some kind of supply closet or something with no lock on the door, barely big enough for both of them, but Frank is almost painfully hard and neither knows nor cares right now. As soon as Frank has managed to yank the door shut behind them, Gerard is pushing him up against it, his hands all over Frank, his hips, his shoulders, his jaw, his ass. Frank melts into it; yes, yes, _yes_ , this is what he's needed since this whole stupid thing started. He bites down on Gerard's lip in that way that never fails to make him fucking _writhe_ , and lets out a broken huff of a laugh.  
   
"Fucking ridiculous, god, you and your fucking accent."  
   
Gerard's face relaxes into a lazy, feline smile. " _Oh_ ," he purrs, "Is _that_ what it was?"  
   
"Not fair," Frank groans. "Fuck, you know what that does to me, _Jesus_." He works a hand down between them, but Gerard's warm fingers fasten around his wrist.  
   
"You aren't joining in," he admonishes. " _That's_ not fair, is it?"  
   
Fine. _Fine_. Frank has more important things to worry about than the remains of his dignity. "Jesus, it's like you don't _want_ me to suck you off," he says, mock-shocked and haphazardly English, dropping to his knees and sounding strange to his own ears. There's a shelf or something digging into his back, but his world has narrowed to _Gerard_ , to the way he looks and smells and tastes and feels and sounds. "Please?" he adds hoarsely, not because he thinks there's even the slimmest chance that Gerard won't let him, but because he knows nothing gets Gerard off like believing he's in control. Or, well. It's a toss-up between that and Frank riding his dick.  
   
" _Fuck_." the word is rough and drawn out, dragging out of Gerard's throat, and Frank's mouth waters. "God, and I thought you couldn't sound any better begging for my cock."  
   
Frank doesn't wait for further encouragement, because, really, it wouldn't exactly be true to say Gerard is the only one who gets off on this, even if there _is_ a breathless laugh fluttering just under the surface. Frank's hands are shaking as he scrabbles at Gerard's zipper and tugs his jeans and tattered boxers down to his knees. He looks up at Gerard, whose eyes are glazed and fixed on Frank's mouth. Frank licks his lips, then leans in and wraps his mouth around Gerard's cock, loving the desperate, filthy moan it earns him. He can hear the first voices passing by outside and lets out a stifled noise of his own at the thought that someone could walk on them at any second, could so easily open the door and find Frank on his knees and Gerard flushed and panting with his hands in Frank's hair. The vibration makes Gerard shudder and murmur a broken encouragement, and Frank takes him deeper, swallowing around him and bracing his hands on Gerard's pale hips.  
   
"Fuck, do that again, I – _oh!_ "  
   
Frank obliges, pulling back slightly to lick at the head of Gerard's dick. Gerard's fingers tighten reflexively in Frank's hair and he makes a choked, ecstatic noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh – loud enough that Frank is _sure_ you could hear it from outside, Jesus _fuck_. It's like opening a floodgate; Gerard is babbling helplessly as he thrusts shallowly into Frank's mouth. Frank loves Gerard like this, can never get enough.  
   
"God, Frankie, you're – Jesus Christ, you're so good, you're fucking perfect, so good when you're down on your knees like that. Fucking _love_ you. God, when we get back to the hotel, I'm gonna – fuck, _there_ , that's it – gonna fuck you right through the mattress, gonna fuck you so hard you'll feel it for _days_. You're gonna remember every time we do an interview, or play a show _– fuck_..."  
   
Frank whines at the thought, high and needy. Fuck, when Gerard sounds like that – breathy and him-but-not-him, familiar words in a strange accent – it's somehow even dirtier. It wouldn't be the first time; Gerard will spread him out and fuck him on a cheap motel bed and then the next day Frank will move the wrong way on stage and feel the ache and the stretch and _remember_ ,and get hard so fast it makes him dizzy. Gerard _always_ notices, always stares at Frank with parted lips and wide, hungry eyes, no matter who's watching. Gerard knows him too well; Frank fucking _loves_ that Gerard is a talker (and a moaner, and a screamer, come to that). There's just something about knowing he can undo Gerard like this, pull him apart until he can't even think about what he's saying anymore.  
   
A set of heavy footsteps pass the door, slowing and then speeding up abruptly as their owner realizes what's going on just a few inches away on the other side of the door. Gerard hears it too, and Frank knows by the way his hips stutter erratically that he's close, so close. He tugs on Frank's hair, warning him, and then he's coming hard with a long, loud moan. Frank swallows, pulling off Gerard's cock and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and Gerard lets out a weak, blissed-out chuckle.  
   
"God, you're a _mess_ ," he says, his breaths still ragged and gasping. Frank doesn't doubt it; imagines his hair teased into a wild tangle around his face, his lips red and slick and swollen, his skin still glistening with post-show sweat, maybe a stray smear of come at the corner of his mouth. He gets unsteadily to his feet, working at the zipper on his own jeans, and stretches up to capture Gerard's mouth in a sloppy kiss. Gerard smiles against his mouth and lets him in, and Frank's dick twitches at the thought of Gerard tasting himself on Frank's tongue.  
   
"And," Gerard continues, wrinkling his nose when Frank pulls away, grinning, "You're _gross_."  
   
"Yup," agrees Frank, unperturbed. He wriggles halfway out of jeans; he's about two and a half seconds away from coming as it is. "You here for the show?" he asks, glancing up at Gerard from under his eyelashes. Maybe Gerard does know him too well, but it goes both ways: Gerard likes to watch sometimes, and Frank doesn't exactly have a problem with that. Gerard nods fervently, swallowing, his eyes flicking between Frank's mouth and the curl of his inked fingers around his own dick.  
   
"Come on," breathes Gerard, sounding so fucking _wrecked_ , like he was the one on his knees with Frank's cock down his throat. "That's it, Frankie."  
   
Frank keens, imagining what they'd look like if someone walked in on them now, and drops his head down to rest on Gerard's shoulder as he jacks himself hard and fast. Gerard is still talking, resting one hand on the small of Frank's back and murmuring dirty things against his neck, but Frank barely hears a word.  
   
"Look at you," Gerard moans, something almost like reverence in his voice. Frank feels Gerard's eyes skimming hungrily over him, and he shudders, working his hand faster. " _Jesus_ , Frank. Later, okay? I'll, I'll..."  
   
Gerard trails off, obviously unable to look without touching any longer. He raises one hand to his mouth and licks a stripe across his own palm, and then Frank's eyes flutter closed as Gerard's hand wraps around him. He can feel it coming, pounding in his head and shaking his bones.  
   
"Gee, so close, gonna – "  
   
"Yeah – yeah, come on..."  
   
Frank's hips buck forwards and he lets out a wordless, animal noise as he comes over Gerard's hand and then collapses against him, boneless.  
   
"Nice going," murmurs Gerard, amused, as he holds Frank through his aftershocks. "I think they heard that one all the way down the fuckin' _street._ "  
   
"Oh, fuck _you_ ," Frank mumbles half-heartedly, burying his face in the scratchy wool of Gerard's jacket. "'S'your fault, asshole. And you know you love it."  
   
"Working backwards, it's fucking hot, yes, and I thought you wanted it the other way round?"  
   
Frank groans, but he's still feeling warm and lazy and post-coital and _nothing_ is pissing him off right now. "All your fault," he repeats. "You are _so_ making this up to me later."  
   
Gerard laughs, sounding young and bright and breathless. "Deal," he agrees, pressing a kiss to the corner of Frank's mouth. "But you have _got_ to work on that accent."   


**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who haven't seen it or would like to see it again, Gerard's little introduction to You Know What They Do is [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BJUjLotSljc).


End file.
